The Problems of Room Shares
by Nyx6
Summary: Takes place during 'Exit Wounds' when everyone has to share rooms for the night. Who does Rossi end up sharing with? Yep, that's right...couldn't resist this!


Couldn't resist this. It was screaming to be written, and I do so love these two sparking off one another. Mind you, I've never watched this series right from the beginning, so forgive me if I've made any character-history errors etc.

* * *

Hotch, of course, got his own room; 'perks of being the boss' he'd called it. Garcia had bagged Morgan from the outset, and in hindsight, childish though it was to call 'dibs' on team mates, Rossi was beginning to wish he'd had the same idea, since, by the time Prentiss and JJ had linked arms like a couple of excitable schoolgirls all that had been left was Reid who'd responded with a chirpy "cool," that had reminded him distinctly of the infamous "road trip!" exclamation and filled him with a similar sense of dread.

"Cool."

The rooms had been cosy enough, if not kind of cutesy for the FBI – a floral drapes and lace detail kind of affair – and luckily twinned rather than double because while topping-and-tailing with Prentiss or even JJ might have been a thought – maybe more than a thought – Reid probably had whale noises or Tibetan throat-singing exercises to get himself to sleep and the thought of sharing a room was bad enough. The same bed would not even have been up for discussion.

"Reid? What are you doing?"

It was a question he'd been compelled to ask at nearly one in the morning after listening to the young genius snorting away in amusement at something he'd been listening to on his headphones. It hadn't been his first attempt at asking, the first two had gone unnoticed such was the intense listening that had been taking place on the bed next to his, but finally he'd got his colleague's attention, watching the expression turn from amusement to something decidedly more 'huh?'

"What are you doing?" he'd repeated again,

"What am I listening to do you mean?"

That was something Reid did on a fairly regular basis, respond to a question with what was essentially a clarification of the terms. Rossi had blinked,

"Yeah."

"It's actually a debate on the psychological and allegorical importance of 'Hypnerotomachia Poliphili', or, to give it it's English title, 'Poliphilo's Strife of Love in a Dream' which is a Greek work attributed to a Priest named Francesco Colonna ..."

It hadn't taken long for Rossi to regret asking the question, but what he had come to regret further in the ensuing diatribe was the spark of interest Reid's hundred-mile-per-hour dissemination had fired, albeit on a less intellectual scale than Reid had possibly been anticipating,

"And that's funny to you?"

"Well," Reid had paused with a momentary frown of thoughtfulness, "Not so much the work itself – which, is, by the way, also noteworthy for being an early example of the printing process – but some of the arguments put forward to denounce Jung's synthesis of the plotline and his theory of archetypes are..." he'd paused here to snort again, seemingly emphasising whatever point it was he was trying to make, "...actually quite amusing."

Rossi had sighed and rubbed at his eyes before making his way to the mini-bar. Expenses be damned, he needed whisky.

"Get you anything?" he'd mumbled wearily, still blinking lines of print from the hours they'd spent sifting through suspect lists and background histories. Reid had sat up at that question, shifting his laptop to the side table and mercifully pulling the headphones from his ears.

"No, I think I'll pass. Studies have shown that although typically supposed to aid in a good night's sleep, a nightcap more often than not disturbs the pattern of the sleep waves which result in feeling refreshed in the morning."

Rossi had nodded dutifully and then picked out a small amber-filled bottle,

"Well, if it's all the same with you I'll take my chances."

Reid had nodded, his expression one of both acceptance and a sort of 'well, I warned you' resignation.

Rossi had downed it in one.

At half past one, head back against the pillows, eyes tracing the cracks on the ceiling for the hundredth time and ears listening to the frantic tapping of fingertips on keys, Rossi had asked another question.

"Don't you ever sleep?"

He'd got another snort of amusement in return,

"Of course I do."

"Will that include tonight at all?"

"Absolutely, in..." there'd been a pause as Reid had examined a nearby clock, "...approximately half an hour."

He knew he'd regret asking, but did so anyway, boredom forcing him into it before he could properly think it through, although his tone had rallied to his call and succeeded in sounding nice and dry for him.

"Why so exact?"

"Well, scientists have concluded that, contrary to popular belief, eight hours of sleep a night is not actually healthy for everybody. The body works best under different sleep patterns for different people, former British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher for example was famous for only requiring four hours of sleep a night."

A pause.

"You're saying you follow the same sleep patterns as Margaret Thatcher?"

It sounded stupid repeating it back, but Rossi had thought it was for the best, just on the off chance that he was in fact dreaming. Reid had pulled a face in response,

"Well, not quite, I actually need a little under five hours."

"I see."

He hadn't. He wasn't sure he ever would.

He'd woken up at four a.m to a dark room and the sounds of nothingness. True – as it seemed – to his word, Reid had kept to his self-imposed schedule and gone to sleep.

Thank heavens for small mercies. Still, with a murderer on the loose and the possibility of another night – or more – with the one-man intellectual whirlwind snorting, debating and typing away beside him, the ability to fall back to sleep alluded him and so, at four forty-five he'd eventually given in and clambered up to retrieve the notes they'd been working on earlier, figuring that his insomnia could at least be good for something.

He'd stubbed his toe against the edge of the bed as he'd rounded the end, the pain exploding upwards and vocalising themselves in a harsh, barked expletive.

Instantly the bed beside him had shifted and the unmistakeable, if not vaguely groggy voice of Dr. Spencer Reid had radiated out from the darkness.

"Do you mind keeping it down a little Rossi?" he'd asked mildly, "I'm trying to sleep."

The daggers _should_have been unmistakeable even in dark.

That was it.

Next time he was calling dibs.


End file.
